


Let's Fabriate

by PanicAndFreakOut



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, General Discomfort, M/M, Modeling, Photography, Vaguely Inappropriate Boners
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanicAndFreakOut/pseuds/PanicAndFreakOut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon is an established model with a face that breaks hearts and a body to apologize for. Ryan is a baby-faced, skinny hipster that is so fashionable that sometimes he finds it hard to breathe (no really, those jeans look tight).When Brendon turns up for a go-see to find that this wiry little amateur is his only competition, can he suck it up long enough to do his job?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When I first opened my eyes, someone was banging loudly on the wall. Why-oh-why did people choose a weekday morning as the appropriate time to put up shelves? I yawned, stretched and figured that, seeing as I was up now and the likelihood of going back to sleep with the insufferable banging was slim, I should probably just get up. “Dallon, move.” I shrugged his arm off of my stomach. He snuffled in his sleep and rolled over onto his side.  Satisfied that I hadn’t woken him, I slid out of the bed and adjusted my tee-shirt to cover the thin strip of skin that has been exposed, either by Dallon’s persuading or simply by my own restless sleep. The date finally clicked and I rubbed he sleep out of my eyes and checked the clock, it was gone ten in the morning. Shit. I only had an hour before I had a meeting with a new client. I looked at Dallon, who had moved again to lying face down and snoring softly into the pillow. Fuck it, let him sleep. It’s not like he had a job to do anyway.  
            The shower was occupied when I got to it. I hoped-Like, really fucking hoped- that it was Spencer, because Ian took so long for someone with such a small body.  I knocked twice on the door.  
“Occupied!” Came the voice from inside. Ian. Well, great.  
“Ian? You going to be long? I have a job in like, an hour.” I called through. The flow of the water stopped, and the curtain got pushed aside. Odd. Nobody in this house was ever courteous.  
“I’m all done.” He said, and the lock of the door clicked. He appeared from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, with nothing but a towel in his hair. “Knock yourself out.”  
“Jesus, Ian. Cover yourself.” I sighed and stepped past him into the bathroom. He simply flipped me off and continued to walk away. I rolled my eyes “Well you could have at least left the water on!” I called after him. He disappeared, laughing into his room. I rolled my eyes and turned the shower back on, stripping down while the water warmed up. Today was going to be good day, I decided. I was going to get the job, I was going to get _paid_ , and I was going to do it without taking my underwear off this time. Not that last time was ever spoken about again. But _I_ still remembered it. I washed as quickly as I could possibly manage and grabbed a towel from the rail. It was damp and had probably already been used. Gross. I threw it on the floor and reached for another. Also damp. I tried to supress my revulsion and wrapped it around my waist. I shut off the shower and unlocked the bathroom door, today was looking slightly less positive, but I wouldn’t let my mood be dampened by a slightly moist towel.  
            Dallon was awake and sitting up in bed with a laptop on his knees when I got back into the bedroom. “Good morning-“ I leaned down to kiss his forehead “First thing you do is check your Twitter, eh?”  
“Got to keep track.” He sighed. “Don’t you have a go-see at eleven?”  
“Yep.” I pulled out the dark grey shirt and slim black trousers I’d ironed the night before. I almost didn’t want to rub my hair with the towel, but needs must. I pulled on my clothes and dropped to my knees to rummage around in my sock drawer, trying to find a matching pair.  
“Want me to drive you?” Dallon asked and closed the lid of the computer, swinging his legs around to the side of the bed.  
“Nah, I’ll be fine. Besides, I only have ten minutes before I have to leave.” I pulled out two not-completely-identical-but-still-suitable socks that might have been black once, but were now a murky grey.  I pulled them on and slipped on my shoes. “How do I look?” I asked, springing up and holding my arms out to the side.  
He looked up and cast a critical eye at the clothes. “Great. Wear your blazer, though.”  
“Yeah, I was gonna.” I turn back to the wardrobe and pull out the black blazer that was reserved specifically for meetings, go-sees and funerals.  I grab my car keys from the dresser and peck the still-sleepy Dallon softly on the lips. “See you in a few.”  
            The car started first time and I pulled out of the driveway, reaching into the glove compartment for a stick of gum and the road map. I knew basically where I was headed, but the instructions the agent had given me were brief and almost entirely unhelpful. I found the road on the map and scanned the route I would have to take, chewing thoughtfully. It was going to take less time than I’d thought. I flicked on the radio; a little background noise couldn’t hurt. I didn’t recognise the song, but then again, I’d never really cared for music. It was catchy enough anyway, and I was eventually tapping the steering wheel in time to the song. I drove for a little while, but there was so little traffic I glanced down at the clock. Ten-forty five and the building that I was headed for was already in sight. I took a deep breath, there was absolutely nothing wrong with being early. In fact, if anything, it showed a positive work attitude. Fuck. Shit. I hoped I wasn’t too early. I pulled into the parking lot, there weren’t very many cars here, which surprised me, I knew I was early, but I didn’t think I’d be one of the first to arrive.  I switched off the engine but turned on the radio. This was the right building, wasn’t it? I looked up through the windscreen and yep, there on the front of the building: _Borne_. This was the magazine’s casting office, but there were only ten cars in the lot. Did I have the wrong date?  
            Unable to just sit here for another ten minutes without knowing if I was even supposed to be here, I unclipped my seatbelt and stepped out of the car. I locked it as I was walking away and opened the front door to the building. The lobby was cold, everything was white and there was faint tinkling music playing distantly in the background, like wind chimes. In the centre of the room was a circular desk where a young man with a headset and a face like thunder sat watching me approach.  
I stepped up to the desk, and he put down a nail file I hadn’t even seen him holding. “Hello, _Borne_ magazine. Are you here for the shoot?”  
“Yes.”  
“Well, it’s a closed audition. It’s by invitation only.” He snipped.  
I was taken aback, I knew that it was a closed audition, but I didn’t expect to be treated with quite so much hostility. I _was_ supposed to be here after all. “Yes. I know. My name’s Brendon Urie…I’m supposed to be here, honest.”  
He shot me a quick look and then typed something quickly into his computer. “One moment, please.” He put his fingers on the earpiece of his headset and tapped his lips with his other hand. “Ah, Mr Valdes? Yes, it’s reception. I have a Brendon Urie here, he says that he’s- Oh. Yes. I’ll send him right up.” He stopped pressing his earpiece into his ear and turned back to me “Mr Valdes is on the third floor.” The man sighed with a sarcastic smile that made me want to knock out three of his teeth, but this was the fashion industry, and a lost tooth meant a lost career.  
“Thank you-” I looked at his name badge “Pete.”  
He pointed to the lift without another word. It was strange that he wouldn’t recognise me. I wasn’t especially get-recognised-in-the-street famous, but I would expect it in a place like this.  
            The lift was as clean-cut and white as the entrance, except completely circled by mirrors. I pressed the button marked with a three and looked in the mirror on the left hand wall. My hair had dried to a stylish-messy and there were no bags under my eyes. I hadn’t bothered shaving; the brief for the shoot had been “Rough and ready.” It had seemed a little explicit to me, but I had definitely done worse.  
            The elevator stopped and the doors ground open. The corridor was carpeted in white- I had a brief moment of prayer that there was not a single speck of mud on my shoes- and the walls were painted the same. I clutched my portfolio even tighter under my arm and walked forward toward the large, circular room at the end of the corridor, where I could already see a camera flashing. There was no door, so to get the attention of the photographer taking pictures of a blank, white sheet, I tapped on the wall. “Excuse me? Mr Valdes?”  
He didn’t even turn around before he waved me forward. “Brendon Urie?  Nice to finally work with you. I’m a fan of yours.”  
I walked around to the side of the camera, he held out his hand and I shook it politely. He looked up then, responded weakly to my handshake and let go of my hand. He smiled faintly “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but actually, I wanted your portfolio.”  
“My…Oh.” I handed him the black folder and tried to swallow my embarrassment. Stupid Brendon. Stupid, stupid Brendon.  He flicked through the pages, barely stopping to look at any for longer than a few seconds. “Looks good. As expected.” He nodded, and I exhaled a little in relief, hoping that my handshake-blip might be forgotten. He rifled through the photos again, this time, he frowned. “One thing, though; you didn’t put your Givenchy photos in here. Why not?”  
Ah. The Givenchy photos. The collection of black-and-white, high-fashion photos of me wearing nothing but a bottle of Givenchy perfume covering my more intimate areas that were the centre spread of Glossip magazine two years ago. Those photos that I promised would never see the light of day again. “I…decided not to let that be a predetermined standard. The nudity, that is.”  
He nodded swiftly and handed me my portfolio again. “Understandable. Although, as a photographer and as a fan, those _were_ some of your best photographs.”  
“It’s not that I don’t like them, I just…” Didn’t like them. When Dallon had attempted to frame one and hang it in our bedroom I had almost burst a blood vessel.  
“My advice:” He said and shrugged “Put them in there. It shows you have the balls to do something a bit more dramatic.”  
“Pun intended?”  
He blinked, clearly thinking back on what he’d said to try and find his mistake. It clicked and he laughed.  “Unintentional, I swear. Go take a seat,” he gestured to an L-shaped sofa on the other side of the room.  
“So is it just plain clothes and no hair and make-up?”  
“Well, it’s not the official shoot. It’s more of a test run with you and a companion. A companion who, might I say, is already running late.”  
            My companion, it turned out, was very, _very_ late. He arrived a little after twenty past, while I sat twitching my toes on the relatively uncomfortable sofa, too awkward to even make idle chit-chat with the photographer- I was supposed to call him Shane- who seemed too busy making idle chit-chat with his camera, even at one point asking it which lens it would prefer.  The camera had apparently responded, because he’d beamed at it and muttered ‘excellent choice.’  
            He had appeared so casually considering his terrible timekeeping that it was little wonder that Shane had not sent him home immediately. “Mr Valdes?” he had asked as he’d sauntered in. Shane had turned around, apparently just as surprised as I was that he even had the cheek to turn up at all. ‘Better late than never’ was not a motto that many of us held particularly dear.  “I’m sorry. The traffic was awful.” He sighed and held out his portfolio to Shane who took it with a nod  
“You’re…? I’m sorry, I’ve clean forgotten your name.” I supressed a chuckle. Having a photographer or casting agent ‘forget’ your name before a photoshoot was the fashion world’s N-word.  
“Ryan Ross.” He said, with a snippiness that would rival Pete The Receptionist’s  
“Ah. That’s it. Well, Brendon, why don’t you come over here? You’ve been sitting there almost half an hour, I’m sure you could do with a stretch.” He said, yet another subtle dig at this Ryan Ross fellow for his lateness. I was beginning to like Shane. I joined them over at the camera and held out my hand to Ryan. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m-”  
He took my hand a little too enthusiastically. I tried not to mind. There was nothing wrong with a little recognition. “Brendon Urie. I know you. I’ve followed your work for a while.”  
“Ah, thank you. I’m very sorry that I can’t say the same. Ryan Ross, you said your name was? Have you been working a while?” He looked about my age, and I hadn’t meant to sound as rude as I had.  
“Only for a few months…Nothing large-scale that I would expect you to have heard of, anyway.”  
It took a considerable effort for me not to wrinkle my nose. ‘Nothing I’d have heard of’? Well that was rich. I was completely sick of these pretentious ‘indie’ types that strutted into castings in their waistcoats and scarves and acted like they were all so much more well-informed than everyone else.  
I decided that I wouldn’t even justify him with a response. “So, Shane,” I turn away, but not before catching Ryan’s slightly hurt expression at my blatant disinterest. “We’d better get started before we run onto someone else’s time.”  
“Someone else?” he asks, looking down the viewfinder of his camera. “There is only you and Ryan, Brendon.”  
Only me and Ryan.  
What?  
This isn’t possible.  
How could it possibly be a completion between me and _him_? He was just a spindly, long-haired hipster that fit the brief of ‘Rough and Ready’ about as well as a middle-class teenager that had never left suburbia, which, he most probably was. Why were we even bothering to try us out? I’d been modelling professionally for longer than I could remember. I was the Cardigan Kid of the Month on Knitter’s Weekly at the age of six months, for crying out loud. But _that guy_? Standing there with his tan suit and brown shoes and his ridiculous hair and a hat. A _hat._ What was this? The fucking sixties? No. No. I refused. I wouldn’t be pit against someone who’d never modelled before in any kind of professional capacity. No. It was different when I thought there was potentially someone else to compete with. Someone who might have actually stood a chance as competition. I wasn’t exactly the king of the modelling world, but that was just ridiculous. What was the point?  
“Oh.” Is what I said. “Well…Ryan. You go first.”  
“Oh, but you’ve been waiting-“  
“Please.” I half-growled, “I _insist._ ”  
Shane clears his throat, “It’s a double shoot, guys. That’s why I asked you to come in at the same time. The feature’s going to be the two of you. You’ve both already got the job. I just need to see your chemistry on-camera.”  
A double shoot.  
Fuck it all.  
And, wait. What? He’d already got the job?  
“Oh. Well. That’s different.” Ryan says, cheerfully. Fuck him, I thought, you would be happy, getting to work with me. This was so beneath me.  
“Okay!” Shane said and pointed to the white sheet “Take your positions, boys.” I huffed as I stomped my way onto the sheet, leaving Ryan to stand there looking bewildered at my sudden and unexplainable anger. Shane was framing me with his hands, so I dutifully struck a pose, looking dead on to camera, and then turned my face into profile. My profile was always a little bit weak, and every coach I’d ever had had told me repeatedly that for me, it was three-quarter angle or dead-on. Shane adjusts the foil umbrella over one of the lights and steps back behind his camera, he looks through the viewfinder, glances at the screen and twists the lens for a few seconds. “Brendon, you look great. Drop your blazer, though. It clashes with Ryan.” Clashed with Ryan?! The nerve. Ryan clashed with _me._ I shrugged it off and tossed it onto the floor anyway. Shane nods his approval “Ryan, scarf.” He pulled it off and threw it on top of my jacket. Bastard. “Okay, better. Now. You’re taller so step in behind Brendon. Perfect. Alright, give me ‘Rough and ready.’”  
            Rough and ready. Right. Angles. I posed my best, jutting out my elbows, clenching my jaw, tilting my head so the stubble catches the light. I looked rough. I looked ready. “Brendon…You’re.” Shane stopped clicking and the flash stopped flashing. “You’re supposed to be working _with_  Ryan. Not trying to out-manly him.” I looked behind me with what I hoped was an apologetic expression, but what was actually intense self-satisfaction. Being more many than Twigs over here wasn’t going to be difficult. Still, I had to be civil. “Ryan?” I say sweetly “Maybe you should stand in front?”  
“Alright. Tell me if I’m blocking your light or whatever.” He shuffled in front of me and took off his jacket. I got a waft of his cologne. What do you know? Givenchy. I knew it because they’d given me about a litre of it in freebies. Maybe the ad campaign really had worked.  
“That looks good. Okay. This time; _interact_ …Touch each other, wrestle or something. I don’t know. Do something. Ryan, lean back a little. Brendon, drape your arm over his shoulder.” I wrapped my arm around Ryan’s neck, but Shane shook his head. “No, not like a bro-hug. Straighten your arm out, like, ‘This is my buddy and we’re climbing mountains.’” We adjusted our position, and somehow Ryan ended up cradled under my armpit with his back pressed against my side. The guy was lucky he had such a good nose, or the shot would have looked ridiculous. I looked away to the opposite direction and Shane encouraged us. The clicking of the camera resumed. Ryan furrowed his forehead. Normally, I would advise anyone against doing that because it makes you look older, but he pulls it off beautifully. He looks older, but not like fifty-year-old-dude older. More like, now he looked his age as opposed to looking like a twelve year old. I hated to admit it, but he looked rough. I changed position again so that while my left arm was over his shoulder, my right hand was grasping his upper arm. Shane stops clicking. “That looks right, but the taller guy needs to be behind. Swap places exactly.” I nodded and let go of Ryan, gradually getting into the swing of this and feeling less and less resentment. As much as it pained me to admit it; Ryan was a fucking good model. “You’re not bad.” I said when he placed his arm over my shoulder. I looked at his hand briefly to make sure he wasn’t sporting a claw or whatever.  
His hands.  
Well.  
Those were some impressive hands. The guy should have been a hand model.  
“Thank you.” There was something like awe in his tone. Of course there was awe in his tone, he was modelling with _me._  
“Ryan, that’s great. Do that frowny thing again and do a third-on to the camera. Brendon, do the same but face the other direction. And don’t frown. Look intrigued.”  
I did my best cute-and-curious face while still keeping it hard edge. Shane laughed “Brendon, you look like Bambi-Rambo. I like it.” He snapped the camera a few more times “Okay, great. This time, Ryan, get in a bit closer and make it look like you’re pushing him to the ground.” Ryan obliged and shifted in behind me. He moved his hands so that one was on my shoulder and the other was flat on my chest. There was a faint, warm tickle in my stomach. Oh no. This was bad. Shane coughed “Ryan. Move your hand up a little. You aren’t modelling ‘rough and ready: gay couple edition’.” His hand jumped up to just over my collar bone. Like my skin had just turned red hot.  
“Sorry.” He said. I wasn’t sure if it was directed at me or Shane, so I just kept posing. “We good?” Oh. So he was talking to me.  
“We’re fine.” Totally, totally fine. Shit, though. Ryan has great hands.  
But then Ryan shifted position and his hip brushed against my thigh.  
Oh. Clearly I wasn’t the only one who didn’t find this position totally fine.  
I swallowed, and it was probably pretty audible. Ryan had definitely noticed that I’d noticed. Shane, mercifully, hadn’t. “Think of your grandma.” I whispered. Shane was too busy shouting encouragement to have heard.  
“What?” He muttered back, I stepped out of his grasp and moved to his side  
“Your little problem? Think about your grandma…” I muttered  
He tensed beside me, maybe he’d hoped that I hadn’t noticed. “S-sorry?”  
This was quite possibly the most mortifying experience of my life. How was I supposed to react to that? Jump up and down and shout ‘Dude, your boner was digging into my hip, so you should start thinking about any dead relatives you have right now.’ That was possibly a little inappropriate. Alright. Another tactic. Subtle glances in the general direction of it, perhaps? No. No. That would be giving him totally the wrong idea.  
Shane clapped his hands “You know what, guys? I think we’ve got it. You’ve clearly…Uh. Got good chemistry.”  
Ah. Shane had noticed too. Alright then. I thanked them both, scooped up my jacket and pulled it on, acting like there wasn’t a single thing wrong. I threw Ryan’s scarf to him, along with his coat. He accepted them with a small, embarrassed thank you. Shane was packing up his camera and collapsing his tripod. “Excellent work though, guys. I like the contrast between you. Ryan’s long and wimpy-looking, Brendon’s shorter but got a bit more bulk. It gives the design more depth. I was right in picking you both.”  
I smile brightly and stick out my hand for a real handshake this time. “Well, you have excellent taste, as usual. The summer cover you did for Cosmo was awesome. I don’t understand what grimy alleyways have to do with short-shorts and tank-tops. But it worked.” I felt like I was giving Ryan subtle tips on how to schmooze. It felt strange. Sorta like the rookie and the mentor had come together in one photoshoot. Not that I had any interest in mentoring anyone. I was still struggling to get by on my own.  
“You knew that was mine?” Shane looked astonished.  
“Well…Weren’t you on the masthead?”  
“Yes but…Who even reads that?”  
Ryan was hovering around behind us, skitting around like he was waiting for his chance to speak with Shane.  
I sighed deeply. Amateurs.  
Shane extended both of his arms, wrapping one around Ryan’s shoulder and one around mine “Lunch, gents?”  
“It’s only eleven thirty…” Ryan glanced at his watch. Simple and plastic. I rolled my eyes. Typical hipster.  
“Brunch, then?” Shane laughed “Ryan. I know you’re new, but please don’t ever turn down the offer of a free meal.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon is an established model with a face that breaks hearts and a body to apologize for. Ryan is a baby-faced, skinny hipster that is so fashionable that sometimes he finds it hard to breathe (no really, those jeans look tight).When Brendon turns up for a go-see to find that this wiry little amateur is his only competition, can he suck it up long enough to do his job?

The café was almost empty when we arrived, save for a few token students or lost souls that propped their shiny Macbooks up on the dull Formica tables and borrowed the free Wifi that was gratuitously advertised outside. They didn’t have very much reason to be here, internet hotspots were abundant, but I supposed that if I had to work anywhere, it would be here. Where the air smelled like coffee and there was the soft atmosphere reminiscent of a sleeping baby’s bedroom. Nobody wanted to disturb anyone else, and even a clinked cup against a plate earned a few glances for disturbing this artificial silence. It was obvious to see why Shane liked it; the place oozed with creative vibes that ‘Artists’ like himself would crave and demand. We sat at a booth by the window, where Shane squeezed in beside me and Ryan sat opposite. “It’s nice here.” He offered. I nodded my head politely and picked up a menu.  
This wasn’t awkward at all.  
“The pancakes are excellent. You should both get pancakes.” Shane turned the page of the menu for me and pointed at the list of options.  
“Ryan?” he asked “What are you having?”  
“Oh. I’ll just get a coffee.”  
Shane looked like Ryan had just kicked his cat. “But the pancakes here are-“  
“No. Really. I already ate.”  
Shane, crestfallen, turned back to me. “So what are you having?”  
I realised that I hadn’t even looked at the menu. I stabbed my finger at the first thing on the list “Blueberry. Yeah. Blueberry.” I slid the menu across to Shane, who immediately started humming and hahing over which he should have. I looked up at Ryan, who was staring down at the table. Poor guy. I probably would have curled up and died with embarrassment if I were in his shoes. I almost felt like curling up and dying for him. Still, he should learn to be more professional.  
“Can I see your portfolio?” I asked. His head rose up slowly like he was unsure that it was him I was talking to. Hello, you’re the only other model here.  
“Uh…Alright.” He picked it up off of the seat beside him and slid it across the table.  
It was thicker than mine, I noticed immediately. I thought he’d only been working a few months. The first page was the usual cover letter detailing his skills, abilities and work ethic. I didn’t even bother to read it, they were all the same.  
His first picture was a headshot from the shoulders up. He was looking slightly to the left, like an old-style portrait. The light caught his face beautifully, and I hadn’t realised quite how defined his cheekbones were before, or how full his lips were, either. The picture looked like any other headshot, but his eyes were lowered and he had a soft smile. Like he knew something that the rest of us didn’t.  
Urgh. What a hipster.  
His second was a standard full-body shot, no creativity in it at all, He was simply standing with one hand behind his back and the other holding a top hat. The angle was strange, though. Like it’d been shot from below as opposed to dead on.  
“Why is the angle like this?” I asked and turned the portfolio around. He looked up with a ghost of a smile and said  
“The tripod broke. The guy had to rest the camera on his knees.”  
“His…Didn’t he have a spare tripod?”  
“Those pictures were shot in a garage in San Francisco with a buddy’s camera.” He smirked and turned a few pages to the portfolio and turned it around toward me again. “That one, See the grimy alley-way backdrop?” The photograph was him with his hands pressed against a dark, gritty wall with his back to the camera. He was shirtless, and I could see the vertebrae of his spine.  
“Yeah?”  
“Nope. Real grimy alleyway.”  
“Bullshit.” I peered more closely at the image. The wall did look genuine, even down to the flecks of moss between the bricks. I cringed at the thought; I’d rather pose in a public toilet than have to put my hands on that wall.  
“No, seriously.”  
“That’s going a long way for a shot…”  
“Didn’t really have much choice.”  
“How do you mean?”  
“I wasn’t exactly on the affluent side when these photographs were taken.” He shrugged. We both fell oddly silent. He wasn’t doing it for the grungy, indie appeal then. I felt a little guilty. I forgot, sometimes that not all of us had the advantage of having magazine pages to put in our portfolios. That was probably why his was thicker than mine, too. Not just because of the number of photographs, but because the paper that mine were printed on was so much thinner. The waitress materialised to break the silence. We ordered, Ryan still having just coffee. I wondered if he was counting calories. Not that he needed to, I thought, looking down at the photograph, he was already slim enough.  
“So.” Shane tapped the table a few times “What do you think, Brendon?”  
“Of?”  
“Of Ryan.” He laughed like that had been the most obvious thing he’d ever said. I honestly had no idea. He seemed like he was exactly the kind of pretentious dick that I hated by default, but he was talented, and he was damn beautiful, too. I watched his hands twisting over one another on the table as he knotted his fingers together, waiting for a response from me; Brendon Urie- seasoned model and professional at being coerced into getting naked on camera. I looked up at Shane and nodded a few times “I like the pictures.” I reasoned “And I think he has a lot of potential.”  
Shane looked down at the menu again with an amused expression that had me twitching in the same way that Pete had. Ryan sat back heavily in his seat. Relief?  
Judging by his expression, disappointment was more likely. He was staring at his portfolio and chewing the inside of his lip. “Well. I really appreciate the implied ‘but’.”  
I frowned deeply and snapped the portfolio closed. Who the hell did he think he was? Reading into what I said like I was just as two-faced as the rest of them. This guy didn’t know me from a hole in the ground. “Look; if I had something to say about your modelling, I would just say it. I’m not going to bullshit or dance around your feelings.”  
He looked at me like I’d just picked up his portfolio and slapped him across the face with it.  
“You know…I’m just going to go to the bathroom…” Shane coughed and slid out of the booth. I only just heard him. I was too busy not taking my eyes off the weedy hipster who thought he could get one over on me. Well, no. I wasn’t going to just roll over and take his sardonic crap. If I was going to work with him, I would put him in his place first. I should have just kicked him sharply under the table. But, for one thing, I was worried he might break. No, I had to just play my trump card. I pulled my portfolio out of my satchel and slid it across the table. “You’ve had my opinion. Let me hear yours.”  
He looked like he would really rather not take it. “I’ve-I’ve seen-“  
“No, Ryan,” I pushed it further toward him until he had no choice but to take it “really. I want your honest opinion.”  
He opened it like it might bite him if he handled it wrong. Good. At least he was a little shaken, now.  
He actually sat and read the cover letter. I felt like slapping him in the face.  
“You play violin?” He asked.  
“Well. It says that, doesn’t it?” I rolled my eyes and sat back. His mouth twitched at the corners like he was trying not to laugh  
“I didn’t know that.”  
No shit, really? “Probably because we only met about an hour ago.” I said. It came out an awful lot snippier than I’d meant.  
“Yes but-” He blinked like he was rethinking what he was about to say and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing “Yeah. I suppose that’s true.”  
He turned the page and came to the first photograph. A headshot, like his own, except that where his eyes had been closed, mine were as open and wide as I could have made them without looking surprised or cross-eyed. I liked that picture especially because my eyes looked amber. Not entirely amber, but like there was potentially a hint of a recessive gene in me somewhere. He nodded “Your eyes look good in this one.” He flipped he page, it was a high-fashion photo that I’d done about a year ago, just a portrait photo, but quite dramatic. The left side of my face was painted black, the right was painted white- They’d been very liberal with the paint, and that stuff had tasted awful. I’d had a headache for days after that shoot. The eye on the right half of my face had a black contact lens that completely blacked out my entire eye, and vice-versa for the left. The effect was quite striking. The product had been a new brand of watch called Balance. Ryan was staring quite hard at the picture. “What?”  
“Nothing…It’s just…This picture was on a billboard.” He laughed and looked up at me from the portfolio. “It’s just crazy, you know? I’m sitting here with a guy from a billboard.” Well. That's generally what happened when you got a job. Your face got put in places you'd never have even imagined possible. Not that this guy would know that, though. "Yeah. That's probably my favourite picture." I shrugged. He flipped through a few more pages, skimming really. I was tempted to spit that he should probably pay more attention, and possibly take notes, but he looked up "Your Givenchy photos..."  
Oh god. Was that literally my staple now? Was that everything that anyone expected of me? Yes, Mr Urie, I recognise you from that magazine where you took all your clothes off and swung a bottle of aftershave around. That was a great shoot, Mr Urie. You looked great in those pictures, Mr Urie. Have my fucking babies Mr Urie, so that they can be beautiful. Just. Like. You.  
"Aren't in there." I sniffed. Typical that he would notice those ones missing.  
"Shame. That was a great photoshoot."  
"So I've been told."  
"Why didn't you put-"  
"Because, contrary to popular belief, I do actually have lots of photos that are equally as good, if not better than the ones where I got naked, okay? There are a lot of shoots that aren't in there, not that you would be able to tell which ones." I sat back in my seat, mentally slapping myself that I should learn to control my temper. The waitress arrived back at the table, and placed the plates down on the table. We thanked her, but she didn't go away.  
"I'm sorry, but...Are you that model from that...uh, that designer? Aftershave or something..."  
Well, I'd managed to last, what, half an hour without being asked. That must be a new record.  
"I'm very sorry. I think you have the wrong person."  
Her face flushed red and she apologised quickly and hurried away. I was expecting a sarcastic comment from Ryan, but he was simply pouring sugar into his coffee with one hand and flicking through the pages of my portfolio with the other. He stirred his coffee briefly and sat back in his chair.  
"Swatch watches, Likotine cards, the Christian Louboutin's Winter last year, the Armani summer from two years ago. No, wait." he flicked through the pages again "Oh, sorry. Armani's in here. Your Yves Saint-Laurent ones aren't though..."  
That was most of the other shoots that weren't in my portfolio. Lucky guess.  
"How did you know?"  
"I told you I'd followed you for a while."  
"Yves Saint-Laurent was four years ago."  
"A long while, then." he smirked into his cup. I didn't really know what to say. Shane came back to the table, evidently lured by the smell of pancakes and the lull in conversation.  
"Sorry I took so long. Ooh, pancakes."  
We left our empty dishes on the table, along with the bill and the tip. The waitress waved goodbye as we left. I felt like crap, not a single word had passed directly between Ryan and I for the remainder of the meal. I answered Shane's questions and got involved in the conversation, but I didn't say anything to Ryan at all. It was a pretty cruel thing for me to do, too. He was obviously a fan and I had just blanked him completely. Shane ushered us back into his car, promising to drive us back to the studio to pick up our respective cars. Ryan was sheet-white and had an expression like he'd been slapped in the face. My stomach curled as I slid into the front seat of Shane's car. I had really messed him up, hadn't I?  
Shane seemed to have noticed our discomfort. “Are you two alright?”  
“I’m fine.” I nodded. My hands folded across my lap. Ryan just jerked his head stiffly. We fell silent again. Luckily the drive between the café and the studio was barely five minutes.  
Shane parked up. “See you guys later. I’ll call you both when we need you again.”  
“How many sessions do you think we’ll need?” Ryan asked, unclipping his seatbelt. I had forgotten what his voice sounded like.  
“Oh, six at the most, I reckon. It’s a six-page spread so if we can get one or two perfect shots each day without any more, uh, blunders, I think we’ll be done in about three weeks.” Ryan nodded his approval and opened his door. I thanked Shane for the ride and unclipped my own seatbelt. He caught my arm as I turned to step out of the cab, though. “Please, Brendon.” He started “Try to be nice to the guy. He’s had it rough trying to get here.”  
“I’ll be perfectly civil.” I said. Nice was slightly out of the question. Shane rolled his eyes, muttered something about ‘bitchy models’ and let me go. I stepped out of the car and watched as Shane pulled away from the lot. Home, then. To put my feet up and forget about the mini-model fanboy that was going to drag my reputation through a grille of cheesewire. I unlocked my car from across the lot.  
“Brendon! Wait!” Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear. I rolled my eyes and grabbed the handle of my satchel as I turned to face him. He looked as though he’d rather be anywhere but here. The feeling was mutual.  
“What’s up?”  
“Can I walk you to your car? I’m waiting for a cab, anyways.”  
I nodded and started walking again. He quickly caught up “I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”  
“Oh. Don’t worry about it. Everyone fucks up when they’re…Inexperienced.” Bitchy, I’ll admit, but I wasn’t here to play families with him.  
“I…I was actually talking about the whole being a fan, thing. I was worried I might have upset you. But thanks for your encouragement.”  
Another punch in the stomach for Brendon. I wasn’t mean, really. I was snippy and sarcastic, but I wasn’t mean. And here he was genuinely giving a fuck about my feelings while I was so ready to shoot him down. Good going, Urie; you’re proving that people really shouldn’t ever meet their heroes. “Oh. Right. Well, it’s really nothing to apologise for. It’s flattering, really.” We stopped at my car. “Look, I’m sorry too. I haven’t been especially polite to you today. I’m really not like this, I swear.”  
“I’d barely noticed.” He smiled, but it was the kind of smile that said ‘I forgive you’ and not ‘the sun still shines out of your butt.’ Maybe Shane had a point. I was too quick to judge. I gritted my teeth. It was time to suck it up, and show him how to be a professional about this. “Let me give you a lift,” I gestured toward the car with my keys “It’s the least I can do.”  
“No, really, It’s fine. We might live in completely opposite directions.” He lifted his hand, but I made a big show of pouting.  
“Please? I don’t mind.”  
He sighed, and looked toward the main road, evidently calculating his chances of getting a taxi versus the supreme awkwardness that would no doubt be ever-present if he drove with me. “Okay. Thank you.”  
“Don’t mention it.” No but, seriously, I mentally begged him to please not mention this to anyone. The last thing I wanted was for people to believe that I appreciated working with this kid. I opened the driver’s side door and threw my bag into the back seat. He was already clicking his seatbelt closed and adjusting his shirt over his jeans. Well, someone was eager. I dropped into the seat and turned on the engine. “Where to?”  
He told me his address and he was right in saying opposite directions. I just nodded and smiled and switched on the radio. It was the same song as earlier, the one that I’d enjoyed tapping away to on the drive to the studio. I vaguely remembered the tune, so I started to hum along.  
“You seriously like this?” Ryan asked. I looked toward him.  
“I’ve literally heard this song once before in my life. I’ll admit, the chick that sings it’s a little annoying, what’s her name-“  
“Justin.” He interrupted solemnly.  
“That’s a guy?”  
He looked completely astonished “Do you live under a rock? He’s like, the ‘hottest’ thing in teeny-pop music.”  
No way. I had no interest in music, but this was a whole new level of bad. “But he’s a girl…Did all the teenage girls turn lesbian in the time I’ve lived under this metaphorical rock?”  
Ryan laughed, “No. But all of the ones aged between ten and thirteen are bisexual now.”  
My brow furrowed “Fuck off.”  
“Seriously. Being gay’s a big fashion statement now.” He sighed. “Which is fucking shit.”  
I was suddenly very glad that I didn’t get involved in popular culture. I was happy enough living completely out of contact with reality. “Well that’s bullshit.” My hands tightened on the steering wheel.  
“It must be a bit of a kick in the face for people who are actually gay, yeah.” Ryan sighed. I leaned over and switched station. I didn’t really feel like listening to that any more. “May I?” he asked and gestured toward the radio. I nodded, prompting him to reach into his bag to pull out an ipod and what looked like a USB cable. He slipped the cable into a port I had never noticed on the dash before and stated scrolling through his songs. “Is this where I see the real Ryan Ross?” I asked. He smiled and shrugged his ambiguity.  
“Ah. Here we go.” He clicked it on: jangly guitars were what I immediately noticed.  
“Oh come on!” I huffed “I know who The fucking Beatles are. I haven’t lived under a rock my entire life.”  
He looked at me like I’d just proposed. “But this isn’t a single…Most people only know the singles.”  
I raised an eyebrow. Hip. Ster.  
“I wouldn’t say I’m a Beatles expert, but I know more than the bog-standard Hey Jude and Strawberry Fields.”  
“So what’s your favourite?”  
“Well, you might get mad. It was a single.”  
“Let me guess…Lucy In The Sky?”  
“Do I look like a drug addict? No…My favourite song’s Penny Lane.”  
“That’s a great song.” He nodded and reached toward his iPod, he scrolled through until he found Penny Lane and put his iPod back down.  
“You aren’t judging me for being so mainstream?” I laughed and stopped at a traffic light. He laughed with me, just as brightly. I really liked his laugh, it lit up the entire car and made my stomach twist again.  
He turned to face me, “You must think I’m such a music snob. My favourite Beatles song is Yellow Submarine, dude. You don’t get much more mainstream than that.”  
“That song is fantastic.” I agreed and turned the volume up on the stereo. The song was just kicking into the chorus.  
I was genuinely enjoying this car ride, and I felt awful about it. Ryan was a nice guy; he was funny and clever and he wasn’t boring. He kept up a conversation even when it was about something he knew little or nothing about, occasionally asking questions, but mostly he listened. And I had never seen anyone listen quite like him. He hung onto every single word I said with such honest enthusiasm that I felt I could just keep talking. And that made me feel like a horrible person. I’d been so ready to jump on him for being new that I had totally overlooked the fact that he really had worked to be here. Just like every single one of us who had ever made it as a model. We all suffered casting calls and go-sees and bitter stings of rejection and rare but wonderful, intense joy when we were booked for a job. Ryan, with his stupid long hair and his stupidly pretty face was no different. “Am I going the right way?” I asked. He looked out of the window  
“You’re going the right way, but this is the long way…We could have saved twenty minutes…”  
“Oh. Well, never mind. I’m still cheaper than a cab.”  
He snorted “Yeah. Right. I’ve seen how much you get paid for a campaign.”  
I shot him a look “Well then, you’re very fucking lucky that I’m expending my precious-as-gold time on driving you home.”  
“Very.” He agreed. But then his face turned crimson and he quickly turned his head to look out of the window. My phone buzzed on the back seat. I cursed and leaned over with one arm to get it, while still trying to look out of the windshield and not crash into the guy in front of me.  
“Let me-“ Ryan turned around behind him and with his long limbs effortlessly reached the bag. He tossed it into my lap, and I dug around the bottom for my ringing phone. Dallon, probably wondering where I was.  
“Hello?”  
“Hey. It’s me.”  
“Yeah. I know. Caller ID.”  
“Oh, right. Sorry. How did your thing go?”  
“I got the job.” I looked over at Ryan “Competition was really stiff, though.”  
He turned to me with such an intense look of mortification that I genuinely thought he was ready to die. Well, fuck if I wasn’t about to torture him with three weeks of boner jokes.  
“That’s good. Well done. So when’ll you be home?”  
“I’m just dropping Ryan off at his house, and then I’m heading back.”  
He paused for a few seconds and I worried for a moment that the line had gone dead.  
“Who’s Ryan?”  
“The guy I’m working with. It’s a paired shoot.”  
“I see. So how long?”  
“Well, another twenty minutes or so ‘til I drop Ryan off and then about forty-five minutes for me to get back. Why?”  
“Just wondering. Love you.”  
“You too. See you in a bit.” I replied and hung up. I turned the stereo back up and waited for Ryan to speak.  
“Did I get you in trouble?” he asked, a hint of smugness in his tone.  
“No, Ryan. Unlike some; I don’t actually have a bedtime.”  
“Excuse me. I’m older than you.” He rolled his eyes. “You looked mad.”  
“Mad?”  
“When you were on the phone, you looked mad. Like a kid does when they’re getting into trouble. That’s why I asked.”  
I glanced away from the road to look at him. He’d started to nervously chew on his thumbnail like he’d said something wrong. I almost felt sorry for him; he clearly had no concept of what was okay to say to me and what wasn’t. Fan Syndrome.  
“It was just my better half being concerned for my whereabouts.” I shrugged.  
“Ah.” He nodded, still biting his thumb “Nice to be concerned for, I suppose. And now at least your girlfriend’ll know where you are if I happen to be an axe murderer-type fan.”  
“Fiancé, actually.” I leaned over him to open the glove box and pull out the chain that I kept inside it whenever I went for shoots; it was thin and silver and at the end was a plain white-gold band with ‘Yours’ etched inside it. I dangled it in front of him and he blinked at it a few times. “Actually, congratulations. You’re the first almost-stranger that I’ve told.”  
“She’s a lucky girl.”  
“I’m the luckier one, actually.” I shrugged and dropped the chain around my neck. He watched it settle on top of my shirt. I really hated wearing it on a chain; it made me feel like Frodo Baggins or something. The sooner Dallon let me announce the engagement the better. Though, that did mean coming out to the whole world, which admittedly was a little daunting. Dallon was right to have his reservations, though. I could effectively end my career. Not that in my career gay men were rare, but they tended to keep it relatively hushed.  
“Well, congratulations.” He said slowly, like he was considering what he said very carefully. “When’s the big day?”  
Probably not in my lifetime, I thought sullenly. Dallon was not known to be a mover and a shaker when it came to anything we did. It took not-so-gentle prodding to get him to so much as open a joint bank account with me.  
“Oh. We haven’t decided.”  
“Well, good luck with that. I’m sure she’s wonderful.” Ah. She. Yes. She. I felt terrible about lying to him, though I’d only known him for an afternoon. Then again, from what I could gather, he wasn’t exactly straight himself.  
“Yes. He’s great.”  
His head whipped around faster than I’d ever seen anybody move “He?”  
“Yes. Sorry, are you surprised?”  
“Well, I never knew that you were, well, gay.”  
Really? I wondered how this total stranger could possibly not know a detail about my personal life. “Yeah. I am.”  
“Oh.” He said and dropped his hands away from his mouth and into his lap. “Oh.”  
“Does that, I don’t know. Bother you? You have to shoot with me after all and I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”  
“No. No, not at all, I’m…I’m gay too.”  
“Oh. No worries, then.” I gave him a smile and elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “Hey. I won’t tell if you won’t.”  
“I won’t. Honestly. I swear.” I believed him, too. Why shouldn’t I?  
“I appreciate that.”  
We sit in a soft kind of silence for a while, I found it very difficult to focus on driving, though. There was an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. Guilt. I felt guilty. What did I feel guilty for?  
The song switched on the radio from Blackbird to Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds. I loved this song, I couldn’t really believe that I’d forgotten it. It was the kind of song that made you feel like you were on LSD, even if you weren’t. Ryan stated to tap his hands on his knees to the slow melody “It kinda makes sense, you know. You being gay.”  
“How so?”  
“Men don’t have engagement rings, for one thing.”  
“That’s true.” I was starting to wish I hadn't said anything at all. I didn't mind that he knew; i just wasn't looking to have a deep and meaningful conversation about it. "It's this turn off here, right?"  
He nodded, "You can just stop here, my house is literally across the street, and it saves you driving up and around again."  
"You sure?"  
"Yeah, positive."  
"Alright." I pulled the car up into the closest lay-by. He pulled his iPod and the connector out and stuffed them into his bag. I watched him adjust his shirt slightly and unbuckle his seatbelt. "See you later, then" I said when he stepped out of the car.  
He leaned through the open door; "Thanks so much for the ride."  
"Anytime." We exchanged a quick smile, but then his expression sobered almost immediately.  
"Right. See you later."  
He closed the door and lifted his hand in a farewell wave before I had a chance to say anything else. Odd. He’d at least been friendly before, but that was just cold. I pulled out of his street and back onto the main road. My stomach still felt twisted and queasy. Still guilty. I looked down into the central compartment between the driver's seat and the passenger's for gum or mints or something to take my mind off this sensation. Nothing. There was nothing in the glove box or the change pocket in the dashboard either. Damn it. Who has a car with no candy? I turned my attention back to the road; but the nausea was still the same. I wiped my mouth with the side of my hand and my wrist brushed against something cold; my chain. I took a deep breath and tucked the ring under my shirt.


End file.
